


smoke and liquor

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly, though, John’s not sleeping because Sherlock came in approximately 2 ½ hours ago smelling like tobacco and bad alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smoke and liquor

It’s long since passed 3 am in the morning, and John hasn’t slept a moment. The air in Baker Street is tight and humid; a strangled summer has made its path across London causing blistering heat waves, which had been fine and lovely for the first two weeks, but after four everyone in the city is walking on a sharp dangerous edge of heat induced tetchiness.  
  
Mostly, though, John’s not sleeping because Sherlock came in approximately 2 ½ hours ago smelling like tobacco and bad alcohol.  
  
He’s in the kitchen, moving around and clinking test tubes and probably on the brink of something important, but completely irrelevant to John. The sound of dense liquid being transferred from one container to another is irregular, pulls him back awake each time he manages to get a sniff close to sleep.  
  
And the smell, the smell is the _worst_ , almost claustrophobic in John’s sensitive nostrils.  
  
John pads zombie like into the kitchen in just his boxers, because honestly, it’s bloody ridiculously hot and he can’t  even count the amount of times he’s caught Sherlock roaming around in just a sheet, so, there.  
  
“Sherlock. 3am. We talked about this.”  
  
John’s voice is as constricted as the air, and he doesn’t care a bit if he’s being narky. Because they _have_ talked about this, thousands of times - No, Sherlock, you can’t play violin at 3am. No, Sherlock, 3am is not a good time to dissect anything. No, Sherlock, _just no_.  
  
“It’s reached the perfect temperature for this experiment, the _exact_ temperature, John, it is paramount that I complete this process at this exact moment in time-“  
  
Early morning, John’s brainwaves don’t exactly function, so he gives up on listening and focuses instead on the oddly tight and shiny trousers Sherlock is wearing, the black silk shirt that’s sitting even more taught across his chest than usual, the gathering of expensive fabric rolled to his elbows. And wonders why he smells of musty tobacco and a disgusting combination of beer and heavy liquor. So he asks;  
  
“Where have you been?”  
  
Sherlock had been mid-sentence, but that doesn’t really matter because John’s been doing that a lot in the past few weeks - the sun has made him several degrees more antsy than usual, and has made Sherlock a million times more irritating. Bad combo.  
  
“A truly terrible night club. Research.”  
  
He doesn’t press any further, doesn’t want to know what kind of data Sherlock had been after, or what probable bodily fluids he’d been collecting. Too early, thanks.  
  
John nods, watches the man pour liquid from one vial to another, at eye level. He usually hates the smell of smoke, but on Sherlock (now he's close enough that it burns instead of smothers) it’s oddly heady, dangerous, inviting. And even though it’s 3am and John’s observation skills aren’t tremendously good, he still notices the faint rose on the peaks of Sherlock’s cheekbones, the way his fingers aren’t one hundred percent steady.  
  
“Have you been drinking?”  
  
Sherlock naturally doesn’t answer, and because of those aforementioned misbehaving brain waves, John presses forwards and turns him by the bicep, leans in close enough that a wave of warm breath caresses his eyelashes.  
  
He smirks, satisfied. Sherlock blinks, angry.  
  
As Sherlock draws to his full height and gives John his best ever _go away right now_ stare, he notices several things - there’s another scent mixed in with the nicotine and bitter ale (cologne, not his own, not John’s), the man is radiating heat that has nothing to do with the unexpected summer, he has no shoes on, and that shirt actually is real silk; it’s pure liquid beneath John’s fingers, pliant as he tugs Sherlock against his chest.  
  
It truly _is_ the fault of the weather, the tobacco, the shirt.  
  
Sherlock _tastes_ dense and smoky too; his tongue is wet and gloriously cold, the bitter of several different types of liquor stains the man’s teeth and John takes it all in, suddenly _wants_ to know what the hell Sherlock had been collecting, but is too busy to ask. (Too afraid of the answer)  
  
John pushes him back against the table but Sherlock distances himself from the edge of it with both hands, says _experiments, John_ , before using the anchorage to throw his weight. John’s back hits the wall with a painful jolt at the unexpected counter movement.  
  
The shirt is so silky and languid between John’s fingers that he can’t get purchase, so Sherlock flicks open his own buttons, shrugs it off his shoulders and then goes back to attacking his mouth. John simply accepts, rolls his hips smartly against Sherlock’s and lets his hands paint the man’s chest with the imprints of his fingers.  
  
Maybe he’ll let Sherlock smoke from now on, because the tang of it settles somewhere enclosed and deep in John’s stomach, rolls around his mouth like fire, engraves into his taste buds.  
  
It’s bruising and far too hot and pretty painful - John _loves_ it. Perhaps if they do this for the whole of summer, it will pass by quick and brilliant. _Perhaps if they do this_ , John will be able to sleep, be able to breathe again.  
  
As Sherlock angles John’s head to press teeth to his throat, he wonders about the cologne scratching his nose. Wonders at the red marks delicately splattered across pale sharp shoulders. Wonders how many times Sherlock has been out _researching_.  
  
“I won’t be going back there again.”  
  
Sherlock breathes, husky, as he wraps a hand around him.  
  


  


  



End file.
